


See You Tomorrow

by justkisa



Series: Every Tomorrow [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 09:16:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2502539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkisa/pseuds/justkisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matija stays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	See You Tomorrow

Matija stays and Stevan doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t call. He doesn’t even text.

The first time Matija sees him, after, Matija steps forward, faster than he should, a smile he knows is foolish on his face. Stevan doesn’t smile and he steps back, away from Matija. It’s so unexpected that Stevan’s gone, turned and walked away, before Matija can think of a single word to say. 

He’s still standing there, one foot forward, mouth open, when Aleks comes around the corner and clatters into him. “I saw Stevan,” he says, wrapping his arm around Matija’s shoulders and shaking him a little, “What’d you do?” It’s carelessly said, just a tease. He always laughs when Matija and Stevan squabble, says they’re worse than his kids. 

Matija leans into him for a moment, just for the reassurance that Aleks is still Aleks, solid and laughing at Matija the way he always is, because Stevan had turned away from him, unsmiling, like a stranger. “I didn’t do anything,” he says. He hasn’t. He’d stayed, he’d changed nothing, he’d _done_ nothing.

“Hmm,” Aleks says, leaning into him, “upset about the injury then?”

Matija hadn’t even thought about Stevan’s injury. He’d been so focused on the idea of _seeing_ Stevan today, tomorrow, the day after that. “Ah,” he says and his voice wavers because he’s ashamed that he’d forgotten, because he’s going to lie to Aleks, “Yeah. Think so.” That isn’t it. If it was, he’d step into Matija’s arms, hold on a little too long, a little too tight, because, when he’s upset about things like that, he clings, burrows into any offered affection and holds on tight.

“Terrible luck,” Aleks says, his tone going soft and sympathetic, “Always such terrible luck.” 

“Yeah,” Matija says. 

Aleks squeezes his shoulders. “Later you can hunt him down and let him beat you at one of those games you two are always playing or something. Put a smile back on his face.” Matija wants to believe it’ll be that easy. He never thought _staying_ would cause problems.

“Come on,” Aleks says, ruffling Matija’s hair, “For now, places to go, people to see.” He pushes Matija hard in the back, sending him stumbling forward, then dances away too quickly for Matija to shove him back. He chases after Aleks. He doesn’t catch him, but he arrives at the training pitch with a smile on his face. 

The start of training is, in some ways, as reassuring as leaning against Aleks’ solid bulk. The club might not want him, and Pellegrini barely looks at him, but his teammates smile when they see him. They jostle into him and pound his back. They ruffle his hair and say it’s good to see him. 

After training, buoyed by the warm welcome of his teammates, Matija goes looking for Stevan. He searches everywhere but Stevan’s nowhere to be found. 

On his way home, he almost takes the turn to go to Stevan’s but he thinks of Stevan stepping back, stepping _away_ from him and he drives past the turn. 

When he gets home, he kicks off his shoes and goes straight to the kitchen with the vague idea of getting something to eat. 

There’s nothing in his refrigerator except old takeaway, water, and the jar of apricot jam Stevan had opened to make palačinka. 

He can’t remember the last time he bought food. All the details of his life in Manchester had been put on pause, forgotten in the scramble to leave it all behind, but here he is, still standing in the midst of all the things he’d meant to leave.

He stands in front of the open refrigerator for so long his fingers and toes go cold and the skin of his arms prickles from the chill. He stares at the jar of jam sitting all by itself on the top shelf of the refrigerator. Stevan’s sticky fingerprints are smeared across the label and the side of the lid. Matija had never touched it. He can almost taste it, though, for a moment, the bright, sticky sweetness of it, can almost feel Stevan’s mouth pressed to his.

He steps back and lets the refrigerator door slam shut. He swallows. There’s no taste of jam just the orangey traces of the Lucozade he’d had after training. He rubs his hands together to warm his fingers.

He turns around and walks straight out of the kitchen. He doesn’t want to stay in the house. It feels like a place he’s already left behind, empty of the things that make a place a home. 

He’s got his shoes back on and has his hand on the doorknob before he realizes he doesn’t know where he wants to go. He leaves anyway and sits in his car. 

He ends up driving to Tesco because he still has to eat, because, if Stevan saw the state of his refrigerator, he’d laugh at him, drag him to the store then try to pick out all his food for him. 

He wanders aimlessly through the aisles, tossing things into his cart mostly at random. In the produce section, an older man stops him in front of the apples and tells him quietly, “I’m glad you stayed, lad.” Matija stammers out a _thank you_. The man nods then walks off to stand next to an older woman picking through a bin of oranges. 

In the aisle with the baking stuff, Matija finds himself staring at the bags of icing sugar. He thinks of Stevan making palačinka, not in Matija’s kitchen, but in the cramped kitchen of Stevan’s Florence apartment. He thinks of Stevan smiling, face framed by wild curls, lips dusted with sugar. He thinks, if he’d known then everything he knows now, he’d have leaned in and licked the sugar from his mouth. 

He grabs a bag of sugar off the shelf before he can think better of it and drops it in his cart. Then he turns and goes straight to checkout. 

When he gets home, he puts away everything except the icing sugar. He leaves it in the middle of the counter and stares at it. He takes out his phone. He thinks about taking a picture of it and sending it to Stevan. Instead he sends him a text, _i bought icing sugar_. He leans against the counter and waits. He’s not sure what’s worse that he’d actually bought the sugar, which he’ll never use, or that he’d actually told Stevan about it. 

Stevan reply comes almost immediately, _what???_ followed by a ridiculous string of emoticons.

Matija sends back _you said i didn’t have the right kind so_ and holds his breath. 

Stevan’s response is slower this time but it does come, _ok_ , and Matija breathes again. 

_come over_ , Matija sends. He waits and waits and there’s no response. _please_ , he sends because the waiting makes him twitchy, because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Stevan says _no_. 

When Stevan’s _ok_. pops up on his screen, Matija touches his fingertips to it, like it’s something he can grab onto and hold. _now_ , he sends. 

_yeah_ , Stevan sends back, _ok_ Matija leans against the counter, his elbow nudging into the bag of sugar, stares at those two little words and waits.

***

Stevan steps through Matija’s front door and Matija’s house feels like a home again.

The first thing Stevan says is, “Did you really?” The corners of his mouth are tugging down, like he’s trying hard not to smile. 

Matija wants to push him against the door and see if the feel of Stevan pressed against him matches his hazy, heated memories. “Did I,” he says, instead, “really what?”

Stevan rolls his eyes. “Buy the sugar.” 

Matija can feel his cheeks heat. “Yeah.”

Stevan smiles, now, broad and amused and Matija can’t help smiling back, even though he knows Stevan’s this close to laughing at him. “Oh, Matija,” Stevan says, kicking off his shoes, “you buying food that isn’t takeaway, this I have to see.” 

“I—“ Matija starts, because he _does_ buy food, but Stevan slips past him and heads off towards the kitchen, leaving Matija in the middle of the hall with his mouth open

Matija closes his mouth. Stevan’s shoes are right in the middle of the floor. He always leaves them there. Matija nudges them to the side with his toe then trails after Stevan. 

When he catches up with Stevan in the kitchen, Stevan’s standing in front of the counter, poking at the bag of icing sugar. “You’re so fucking,” Stevan says, “so fucking…” He trails off. 

Matija kicks Stevan’s heel. “So fucking what?” 

Stevan shakes his head. He turns and leans back against the counter. “Oh, Matijica,” he says, with a crooked, almost-smile, “what am I going to do with you?” 

Matija bites down hard on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from blurting out all the needy, grasping answers he wants to give. He shrugs. 

Stevan stares at him for a moment then he pushes off the counter, turns, picks up the bag of sugar, and says, “Were you just going to leave it in the middle of the counter?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. He goes around the counter and starts opening Matija’s cabinets. 

Matija leans against the counter. Stevan opens and closes one cabinet after another. He’s probably frowning at Matija’s total lack of organization. That’s what he always does. He finally finds, what Matija assumes he thinks is the proper place for a bag of sugar Matija’s never going to use, and puts the sugar away. 

He comes and stands on the other side of the counter. Matija waits for him to scold him about the state of his cabinets but Stevan just stares at him, his expression unsmiling and grave.

They’ve been here before, face to face, the counter and so much more between them. It makes Matija wants to curl his hands around the edge of the counter and hold on tight. He can still remember the feel of the cold, hard edge digging into his palms, can almost taste too-sweet coffee and jam on his tongue. 

“Did you,” Stevan says, slow and quiet, “Matija, did you stay because of…” He trails off. He doesn’t need to fill in the rest. Matija knows exactly what he means. 

He hadn’t stayed for Stevan. 

On that last frantic day, he hadn’t thought of Stevan once. His clearest memory of that day is of his agent, stern-faced and serious, saying, “They don’t want you. Let me find you somewhere that does.” Except, nowhere he wanted to go was willing to pay, and all the places willing to pay weren’t places he wanted to go. The day seemed to last forever and, by the end, everything had become so futilely frantic that he couldn’t take it anymore and he’d finally said, _stop, enough_. He’d had to say it over and over until everything, everyone, finally stopped. And he’d stayed. Stayed where he wasn’t wanted, wasn’t needed, so he could train in the shadow of his replacement and wait for January to come. 

He’d hadn’t thought of Stevan until later, until he fell exhausted onto a bed covered in sheets he’d never bothered to change, coffee stained and still carrying the fading scent of Stevan’s cologne. He’d fallen asleep thinking of him and woken up sweating from dreams which were a feverish twisting of memory and fantasy. 

The next morning he’d left the sheets, twisted and sweat-soaked, on his bed and gone to represent his country. (They’re still there, the sheets, he can’t bring himself to change them.) The joy of being wanted, of _playing_ , had been almost overwhelming. Then it was over and it was time to go back to a place he’d meant to leave. Stevan was there, though, and that’s all he’d thought of on the way back. Stevan would be there. 

But Matija hadn’t stayed for him. 

He makes himself look straight at Stevan and says, “No.” 

He’s not sure what reaction he was expecting but the way Stevan’s shoulders drop, the way his whole body goes from a tense, straight line to a relaxed slump, the sheer relief that sweeps across his face, none of that is what he expected. 

“Okay, Matija,” Stevan says, in a soft, gentle tone Matija hates. Matija wants to reach across the counter and push at him, wants to ask him why he was upset before, wants to ask him why this, of all things, calms him. 

“So,” Stevan says. He smacks his hands down on the counter. Matija jolts at the sound. It’s discordant in the still, serious quiet of the kitchen. Stevan smiles, wide and over bright. “FIFA?” he says and his tone matches his smile, so bright it’s sharp and scraping, like metal forced along metal. 

Matija blinks at him. “What?”

“FIFA,” Stevan says slowly, over-enunciating each word, “the game, Matija, c’mon.” He comes around the counter. “Aleks says you’re going to let me win.” 

“What?” Matija says again. “Aleks told you— _What?_ ” 

Stevan rolls his eyes and keeps going like Matija hadn’t said anything at all. “Not that I need you to let me win.” He walks past Matija and pokes his shoulder. “But,” he says, “I guess, Matijica, it’s the thought that counts, so thanks.” 

“Stevan, what? You want—“ Matija says, his words tangling, because he doesn’t know what to ask to first, doesn’t know what the fuck is going on. 

Stevan’s already half-way out of the kitchen. “What I want,” he says, looking back over his shoulder, “is to be Barcelona for once. You never let me be Barcelona because of your weird thing for Messi but today, I get to be Barcelona because, according to Aleks, you’re supposed to be making me feel better or some shit.” 

Matija stands there staring after him. He feels like he’s missed something important. He doesn’t understand how Stevan could go from asking him _that_ question to FIFA just like that. 

He hears a blare of sound that must be Stevan turning the television on. He turns and follows the sound to Stevan. 

Stevan’s sitting on the sofa fiddling with Matija’s game controllers. The FIFA start screen is up on the television and the intro music is playing softly. Matija puts his hands on the back of the sofa and says, “You really want to play?”

“Yeah,” Stevan says, without looking up, “I do.”

“Really?” Matija says. 

“Yeah,” Stevan says, looking up, “Why? Did you want to do something else?”

Matija doesn’t know what he wants. The whole day feels like a strange, surreal dream. Nothing is going the way he thought it would. “No,” he says, “I just, I—“ He stops. 

Stevan holds up the controllers. “Do you want to play or not?” 

“Okay. Fine.” Matija says, because, maybe, if he sits down next to Stevan, plays with him, like they’ve done hundreds of times, things will start to make sense again. He comes around the sofa and flops down next Stevan. “Let’s play.” 

Stevan tosses him a controller. “All right.” He leans into Matija for a second and presses their shoulders together. He’s so warm and the smell of him makes Matija think of sleep-warmed sheets and fractured memory of the weight of him pressing him down into his bed. And Matija almost says, _fuck the game, tell me what the fuck is going on here, because I don’t understand at all._

Stevan shifts away and leaves Matija cold. “I get to be Barcelona,” he says, “Right?” 

Matija picks up the controller. “Sure,” he says.

It’s a strange game. Stevan’s quiet, doesn’t trash-talk like normal, doesn’t talk at all. There’s just the sounds of the game and the click of the controller buttons. Matija can’t focus and, by halftime, Stevan is up 3-0. 

Matija waits for Stevan to go straight to the next half but Stevan turns toward him and says, “Are you actually letting me win?” He’s frowning a little, like the idea really bothers him. “‘Cause I really thought Aleks was just talking shit, but…” 

Matija fiddles with his controller and doesn’t look at Stevan. “No. I— I just—“ 

“What?” Stevan says, nudging him with his elbow. 

Matija drops the controller on his lap and looks at Stevan. “I just, I _stayed_ , and you—you want to…” He trails off and waves his hand at the television. “I just— I don’t—”

“What do you want, huh, Matija?” Stevan says, cutting Matija off, “Just tell me.”

“I _stayed_ ,” Matija says, because if him leaving was their problem then _I stayed_ is the answer, is the solution, why doesn’t Stevan see that?” 

Stevan shrugs. “For how long, Matija?” 

Matija doesn’t want to answer. He’s sure it doesn’t matter if he does or not. Stevan already knows the answer. “I stayed,” he says again. 

“But not for me,” Stevan says with a hint of a smile. 

It’s the smile that breaks Matija, that makes him snap, “Why the fuck does that make you happy?”

Stevan jerks upright. He tosses his controller away and it clatters against the edge of the coffee table then falls to the floor. “Do you think,” he says, his voice strung taught with anger, “that you staying in a place where you won’t play, where they don’t want you, for _me_ , is something that would make me happy? Do you really think that? How can you think that would ever be something I want for you? And you didn’t, and that— It doesn’t make me fucking happy, but— _Fuck_.“ He looks away and scrubs his hand through his hair. “Just—“ He stops. His shoulders hitch and he takes a deep, gasping kind of breath. “What do you want from me, Matija? Just— Just tell me.”

Matija wants to run his hand along the tight line of Stevan’s shoulders, wants to touch and stroke and soothe. He fists his hands, digs his nails hard into his palms. “You know,” he says, because what he wants hasn’t changed. 

Stevan turns back towards him. “Yeah,” he says, quietly, “I do.” He looks away again. “And I—“ he says, so quiet Matija can hardly hear him, “I want…”

“Stevan,” Matija says, “if you—“

Stevan turns back. “It’s still a bad idea. You’re still—“ He looks away again. 

Matija unclenches his hands. He reaches out and rests his hand on Stevan’s knee. He rubs his fingertips along the edge of Stevan’s knee. The fabric of his jeans is rough against the pads of his fingers. “Please,” he says, “Can’t we just, even if it’s just—“ He can’t make himself say the rest. _Just for awhile_ sticks in his mouth, behind his teeth, and he can’t spit it out. He thought, when Stevan came to Manchester, that they’d be playing together for years, that this would be the club for them to play together, to _win_ together. He never thought it’d be like this. He squeezes Stevan’s knee. “Please.”

“Matija,” Stevan says, his voice rough, “ _Matija._ ” He looks back at Matija. His mouth is open, like there’s something more he wants to say, but all he does is stare at Matija. 

Matija leans in, slow, in case Stevan wants to back away and, when he doesn’t, Matija kisses his open mouth. He rests his forehead against Stevan’s and says, “Please.” Then there’s just the never-ending loop of the game’s music and the sound of Stevan’s breathing.

“Okay,” Stevan says, finally, “Okay.” 

Matija turns into Stevan, reaches for him, but he doesn’t know where to put his hands. They’ve done this before but his memory of it’s so fractured this feels like the first time. He fumbles one hand along Stevan’s side and his other hand skates along Stevan’s knee. The game controller slides off his lap and ends up jammed between their thighs. Stevan makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. When Matija kisses him, he feels the vibration of it against his mouth. 

“Matija,” Stevan says. Matija opens his eyes. Stevan’s smiling, biting his lower lip, like he does when he’s trying not to laugh. 

‘Shut up,” Matija says, digging his fingers into Stevan’s side. 

“I’m not—“ Stevan says. He turns a little and gets his arms between them. He puts his hands on Matija’s chest. “Hey,” he says, leaning in to kiss Matija, sliding his hands up to his shoulders, “It’s okay. We’ve done this before. Just—“ He kisses Matija again, slow and coaxing, until Matija opens his mouth for him. 

“I—” Matija says. Stevan rubs his thumb along Matija’s collarbone and smiles, soft and fond. “I don’t remember,” Matija says in a rush, “I mean I sort of do but it’s all— I don’t know.”

“Shit, Matija,” Stevan says, he’s still rubbing his thumb along Matija’s collarbone in slow, soothing strokes, “You were that drunk? If I’d have known that, I’d…”

“I wanted to,” Matija interrupts, because that much he’s absolutely certain of, “I _did_. I just, it’s all— I can’t really remember all of it.” That had, in the end, been the worst of it, not Stevan turning away from him, not that he’d thought he had to leave him, but that all he’d had of the one time they’d _had_ was a jumble of hazy, disjointed memories.

“Okay,” Stevan says, “Matija, if you wanted to that’s— Okay.” He curves his hand around Matija’s nape and strokes his fingers along his throat. Matija wants to bow his head and push up into his touch like a cat looking to be stroked. “Do you,” Stevan says, “uh, do you want me to show you, what we did?” 

“Okay,” Matija says.

Stevan kisses him again and says, “All right.” He smiles a little. “Maybe,” he says, “this time, we’ll skip the part where you destroy my shirt.” 

Matija smiles. “I remember that part. That shirt was fucking ugly.” It really was. It was some kind of terrible neon green and orange plaid. Stevan had left it behind and Matija had thrown what was left of it away though he’s pretty sure some of the buttons are still under his bed. 

Stevan shoves at him. “Fuck you, it was not.” He almost sounds mad but he’s still smiling.

Matija pokes his side. “It really was.” 

Stevan shoves him again, harder this time, and Matija tumbles back onto the sofa. “Whatever,” Stevan says, getting up, “Come on.” He holds out his hand. Matija takes his hand and lets him pull him up off the sofa. 

When they get to the bedroom, Matija reaches for Stevan, fists his hands in the hem of his shirt. He can remember this desperation from last time, this pulsing eagerness to touch Stevan, itching just under his skin. Stevan smiles and curls his hands around Matija’s wrists. The warm firmness of Stevan’s touch makes it worse and better all at once. Heat spirals up Matija’s arms from places where Stevan’s fingertips press into his skin. “Thought we agreed I’d do this part,” Stevan says. He squeezes Matija’s wrists. “Take off _your_ clothes, okay?” 

He lets go of Matija and steps back. Matija can still feel his touch, like bands around his wrists. “Go on,” Stevan says. He starts unbuttoning his shirt. 

Matija raises his hands to pull off his shirt but then Stevan’s peeling his shirt off his shoulders and Matija stops and stares. He never gets to look at Stevan like this. Stevan unfastens the button on his jeans and says, “C’mon, Matija,” he kicks Matija’s shin, “take it off.”

Matija wants to keep staring, to catalog the line of Stevan’s hips, the curving, dark lines of ink along his arm, the way his collarbone dips. “Right,” he says, just a little too slow, and Stevan smirks as he pushes his pants down over his hips, “Okay.” 

He doesn’t get another chance to stare but it doesn’t matter because Stevan’s pushing him down onto the bed and settling on top of him, slotting against him like he’s meant to be there, like he fits there precisely. 

“So,” Stevan says, kissing him, “Let’s see how much you remember.” Then he drags his mouth down Matija’s throat and fills in the gaps in Matija’s memory with a slow, unbearably deliberate carefulness.

Matija tries to memorize every touch of Stevan’s mouth, every curving path of his tongue along Matija’s skin but, when Stevan’s teeth catch on the corner of his hip and he licks along the bone, he loses track. Then there’s just the way his mouth curves round Stevan’s name and blurring heat of Stevan’s mouth on him. 

After, Stevan slumps on top of him, and Matija wants to keep him there, wants to stay there, pinned down by Stevan’s weight but Stevan rolls away. He sprawls on his stomach, his face turned away from Matija. 

Matija waits for him to turn back. He’s cold without Stevan sprawled across him, adrift without Stevan’s weight to anchor him, pin him down. “Stevan,” Matija says and Stevan turns to look at him. His mouth is swollen and still wet and Matija wants to lean over and kiss him. 

“So,” Stevan says. He smiles a little and pushes up on his elbows. “Now what?”

“I don’t know,” Matija says, rolling over onto his side, inching closer to Stevan, “Just— Stay. We’ll—we’ll have dinner. I don’t know.” 

Stevan quirks his eyebrows up. “Dinner?”

“Yeah,” Matija says, “Dinner. I’ll make something.”

“You,” Stevan says, laughing, “are going to make dinner? Really?” 

Matija shoves at his shoulder. “Yeah, me. I mean I bought food and—“

Stevan interrupts, “You,” he says, flopping over onto his back, “bought icing sugar.” He’s still laughing. 

“Shut up,” Matija says, “I bought other stuff too.” 

Stevan smirks. “Is any of it things you can make dinner out of?” 

Matija’s honestly not sure. “Whatever,” he says, “I’ll order dinner. So stay, all right?”

“I don’t know,” Stevan says, he’s laughing again, “First you say you’ll make me dinner, now you’re just going to order it. If that’s the way it’s going to be, maybe I should go.”

“No,” Matija says and he knows Stevan’s teasing, he does, but the _no_ still comes out desperate and sharp, “Don’t.”

“Matija…” Stevan says and he’s not laughing any more. 

Matija curls his hand around Stevan’s wrist. “Just— just stay, okay?”

Stevan’s quiet for a long moment then he says, “I’m not going anywhere.” Something about the way he says it makes Matija want to say sorry but he’s too selfish to say it and mean it. He won’t ever be sorry for anything that gets him this, gets him Stevan here with him, naked and sprawled across his bed. 

He digs his fingertips against the bones of Stevan’s wrist. “Good,” he says and leans down to kiss him. Stevan’s mouth is soft and he opens easily for Matija, lets him in. He slides his hand along the nape of Matija’s neck and holds Matija to him. 

Matija kisses the corner of his mouth then dips his head and presses his mouth against his pulse, slides it down along the curve of his collarbone. He licks at the hollow there and lets the sweat-salt taste of Stevan’s skin prickle across his tongue. He wants his own chance to learn Stevan. He wants to memorize him, - his skin, his body - with his mouth. Stevan drags his fingers along the curve of Matija’s neck then his hand falls away and Matija takes that as permission. 

Matija takes his time and learns how to make Stevan shudder under his mouth, how to make him sigh out Matija’s name in a way that sizzles along Matija’s skin and makes him sweat. He gets dizzy with it, the taste of Stevan’s skin, the way he can make Stevan want. 

When he brushes his mouth just under Stevan’s bellybutton, Stevan lightly touches his cheek, skates his fingertips along Matija’s cheekbone. Matija looks up. “Hey,” Stevan says, hoarse and breathy, “Matija, you’ve— Have you ever…“ 

Matija turns his head so he can press his mouth to Stevan’s fingertips. “Yeah,” he says and doesn’t say it was only once and years ago and, even if he never had, he’d still want to now. 

Stevan traces Matija’s mouth with his fingers. “Okay,” he says, “I just—“ Matija puts his mouth on him and he stops. His hips stutter up. Matija holds him down and keeps going. And Stevan says his name like it’s the only word he knows.

After, Matija settles between Stevan’s thighs and presses his face into his neck. He wants to hold Stevan down, wants to pin him in place, so he stays right here, so he doesn’t even think of leaving. “Stay,” he whispers, mouth pressed to Stevan’s skin, “Stay.”

Stevan runs his fingers along Matija’s spine and says, “Okay.”

***

The next morning, when Matija wakes up, Stevan’s asleep next to him. His face is turned toward Matija. Matija stares at him. He wants to touch him, to make sure he’s really there, but he doesn’t want to wake him.

He eases out of bed and shuffles down the hall to the kitchen. It’s still early. The light coming in through the windows is gray and new. 

He makes coffee. He pours two mugs and puts the disgusting amount of sugar Stevan prefers into one. He leaves them on the counter to cool for a few minutes before he picks them up and makes his way back down the hall to his bedroom. 

Stevan’s awake and, when he sees Matija, he smiles and sits up. “Hey,” he says, voice rough with sleep, “Good morning.” 

“Good morning,” Matija says and walks over to the side of the bed. He leans down and glances a kiss along Stevan’s mouth because he can, because Stevan looks so right in his bed. He straightens up. Stevan’s smiling up at him. “I made coffee,” Matija says and holds out the mug he’d fixed for Stevan. 

Stevan takes the mug. “I thought we agreed,” he says, “that your coffee’s terrible and you should never make it.” 

“Fuck you,” Matija says, taking a sip of coffee, which is, though he’ll never admit it, not great. 

Stevan smiles. “You can,” he says, “if you’d like to,” and Matija chokes on his coffee. 

“ _Stevan_ ,” he says.

Stevan just laughs a little and takes a sip of coffee. He wrinkles his nose. “This is terrible,” he says, “You’re just going to have to let me make all the coffee.” 

If that means he’s going to have more mornings where Stevan wakes up in his bed, mornings with Stevan puttering around his kitchen, making coffee, making breakfast, then that’s fine with Matija. “Okay,” he says. 

Stevan smiles and says, “I’m going to end up making breakfast too, aren’t I?”

Matija shrugs. “I could—“

“No,” Stevan says, “ _No._ I don’t think so. You burn the eggs,” and he’s laughing as he says it, smiling up at Matija and laughing. 

Matija isn’t glad he stayed in Manchester but he’s selfishly glad he gets the chance to have mornings like this, mornings with Stevan smiling and laughing in his bed, even if it’s just for a little while.


End file.
